It's Real

(Hook, sample) Hey man, it's real Knowin that Hey man, it's real Knowin that Hey man, it's real Knowin that Hey man, it's real Knowin that (Verse 1, Brotha Lynch Hung) I put you up nigga, don't trip You did your dirt for that mark And he left you in the dark Sky-divin' in a bullet-proof parachute No remorse, left you hangin Easy aimin, lock down shoot The Glock sounds tootin One minute til' I'm in it Got a business, still they ass to death And get my scrill up in the corner, none left Shots out to my nigga in the pen Didn't switch, didn't act bitch Try to stop a nigga from gettin rich You could dig a ditch, but you won't find shit Left you in flames, kept the roach You can smell the shit when I approach I be off that stanky sack of indo-nesia It's a evidential I leave you hungry, eat yo cheese up Heard you was sweet, like a Almond Joy And I know you heard of me Cause I'm a West-Coast Bad Boy And I'm a sick nigga, "Sicc made!" It gets real as I pull the pin out this grenade! "Body Parts" like the movie Old school Uzi Rip yo arms out from the elbows Nigga I smell those green leaves The six thieves A twenty-sack of green weed is all I need I make you bleed, I take yo cream I know you got it from the "Ice Cream Man" Before you make that transaction I need the cash in my hand And if you don't, we can do the murder-man dance Under any circumstance, I'ma have yo hands (Hook) (Verse 2, Master P) Brotha Lynch, I'ma make you a deal you can't refuse My phone tapped The new code for halfs and wholes is t-shirts and tennis-shoes From the yay, I got the sneakers Sixty-five for a shoe nigga, if you got the tweakers Meet me down-south, New Orleans we bumpin I get this bitch jumpin, you got the money I got the g's, flip the ki's, and the o-z's We could blow some weed And talk about this shit smokin some trees But watch yo back, keep yo handle bar cocked Too many Federal Agents pretend to be hustlers, but really cops Send it across the border, nigga like Taco Bell Put it in a plane, a boat, UPS, nigga I could get it there I'm surrounded by cocktails, I mean hoes in mini-skirts Ain't no free dick out here, it's time to put in work Put these hoes on a Greyhound, fool if it's goin down And make 'em bring it back, from my hood, to your town And it's all good, nigga it's like wax And we could slang these records like motherfuckin crack And if they bumpin, we gotta keep 'em jumpin Cause it's all about the cheddar, the cheese, and the money (Hook) (Verse 3, Mr. Serv-On) A criminal tatted front-to-back Always 'bout my jack Doin a dope-deal, forget to bring yo strap Let it be fact, I blast first I know no nigga that smart in a hearse Who cursed, my dope and money life A Eagle with blood stains in the scope Be my wife, live yo life Til' death do us part Start my gangsta bounce Thirty-six ounce, to a ki Got this T-O-D in ya face Now tell me the fuck else you got free A thousand pounds of that skunk Ready to jump, smokin everything I can, huh Master P, and Brotha Lynch Hung Let me serve some dick to these niggas with they tongues out Eighty-five in the south Twenty-four in the east See my scrilla, blow like yeast Cross my fingers, pull my wife It's hot tonight A murder case, got away with a hundred g's And a couple of wild geese, headed west Capiche? A hundred clunkers waitin my arrival Dirty... survival (Hook, to fade)